Poker Night
by Rassilon001
Summary: In a time of war, any good commander will tell you that soldiers need time to unwind. So we visit the Reds and Blues during such a time as they relax and enjoy a semi-peaceful game of cards together.


**Disclaimer:  
**I do not own Red vs Blue, or Halo. Those belong to Rooster Teeth, who are far richer than I.

**Summary:  
**In a time of war, any good commander will tell you that soldiers need time to unwind. So we visit the Reds and Blues during such a time as they relax and enjoy a semi-peaceful game of cards together. Takes place after N+1. Rated PG-13 for light cursing, drinking, and sexual innuendo.

* * *

Nearly a month after the events in the frozen Avalanche crevice had taken place and both teams had been de-briefed, they'd returned to their respective bases in Valhalla for training missions. Problem was, knowing full well they were part of some mock program and technically the same side made it difficult to actually fight one another (seriously or not). Plus there was a wealth of camaraderie in their battle against the corruption of the Freelance Program. That sort of thing wasn't so easily tossed aside.

Not to say either the Red Team or Blue Team got along very well with the other.

However, as part of their newfound camaraderie, one night every month, the last Thursday, they put aside their weapons and differences, and gathered together for a more unique kind of teamwork training.

Now at a critical juncture, Simmons idly tugged at the collar of his breastplate as he waited. His opponent was a slippery one, no one could predict his moves, he was either a masterful manipulator or winning by sheer luck. Simmons braced himself for what came next.

"Go fish!"

Various groans and curses filled the air at Caboose' statement, and Grif kicked back his seat and rose up from the table to go grab another beer. He had a distinct feeling he was going to need it. Maybe two.

Biting back his own sigh of frustration, former Agent Washington, still affectionately called "Wash" by his teammates, reached over to pat his misguided comrade on the shoulder. Perhaps a bit harder than was absolutely necessary.

"Michael," he said patiently, speaking as he would to a child. "This is Halo Hold 'Em, not Go Fish. You want to call, raise or fold."

"Oh! In that case I wish to fold!" Caboose declared after perhaps three seconds thought, putting his cards on the table. Idly, Wash reached out and flipped them over. Two three's. Coupled with the jack, four, and ten, meant close to absolutely nothing. In this case, Caboose had chosen wisely, but it still failed to sit easy with the others how often he pressed ahead when his cards were good. It wasn't even that he knew how to bluff. Idly Wash wondered if he flat out asked during the next round Caboose would just tell him what his cards were.

Across the table, Sarge sighed and rubbed his forehead in frustration. His helmet was resting on the wall behind them, in the row with the others. One of their card night rules, since having a helmet made it way too easy to bluff. They also had rules that included no loaded weapons, no more than five beers each, and no Lopez. The latter hadn't wanted to participate anyway, but he was kept out on account of the trouble understanding him and the fact that, as a robot, his face was permanently in poker mode.

They'd staggered the two teams so neither side tried any pre-emptive cheating by remaining close together, alternating Blue and Red along the edge of the table. Sarge across from Wash, Simmons across from Tucker, Grif across from Caboose. Doc was pacing along the edge offering meaningless advice to everyone, and Lopez sat by the keg. Donut was hovering behind Sarge, trying his best to offer advice.

Problem was, it wasn't for the game.

"See I think what our base needs most of all now is some disco lights, for next time we have company over... everybody loves to go dancing."

"I don't," everyone else replied, near simultaneously.

Donut blinked in surprise, brushing a hand through tussled (and impeccably groomed) blonde locks. "Oh, well, uhm..."

"Donut, I am _this_ close" here Sarge held his hand up, thumb and finger close for emphasis, "To issuing Simmons a directive-level command to convert your stuffed animals into our next firing practice targets..."

"Shutting up sir."

Grumbling in satisfaction, the leader of Red Team transferred his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, blowing out a stream of gray smoke as he studied his cards. Ultimately he called. Simmons dropped out, revealing his ace of spades and its solemn five partner.

Everyone chipped in, some double-checking their cards, going all the way around to Grif.

Seeing the small pile of money in front of him, he made his decision purely out of self-preservation.

"I'm out," said Grif, tossing down his cards as he raised his arms in surrender. Queen and a six, neither of which were much use at the moment. He took a sip of his beer and leaned back lazily in his seat, kicking up his legs to prop his feet on the table comfortably.

Simmons (who was dealing) flipped the next card. A six.

"Goddamnit," muttered Grif. He could've at least had a pair if he'd stayed in.

Wash and Sarge both called, and Tucker raised it when it came around to him, grinning ear to ear as he tugged at the dogtags hanging from his neck. By now, just about everyone at the table recognized this as one of his tells, he didn't have jack. Sarge met his raised and added one of his own, nearly triple the amount. Wash met that with no troubles, but Tucker realized the gig was up. He wisely decided to fold.

"What'd you have?" asked Simmons, peering over curiously.

Tucker grumbled and indicated his cards as he turned them up. "Two sevens."

"You idiot! That's at least a pair!"

"Nah those two never put in more than piddly change when they got good cards. Better live to fight another day, right?"

Grif nodded at the philosophy, "Today is a good day to retreat." Now even if he'd stayed in, he might've still lost to Tucker's sevens. Retreating had served him well yet again.

"Whatever, morons," muttered Simmons, sliding out of his seat to claim another drink.

"Hey toss me a beer while you're up, will you?" asked Tucker, holding up a hand to catch it. Simmons obliged, and tossed... poorly. The can bounce off of Caboose's head and amazingly, fell out of the open window to fall far below. It was doubtful it survived its fall, the aluminum container would've shattered, and the grass below was no doubt getting intoxicated.

"Third worst throw... of all time," muttered Wash.

Grif snorted at that and chugged his drink while Doc applied his medical expertise to Caboose. And everyone else let him because they figured he couldn't possibly make his head any worse.

Putting out his current cigarette, Wash plucked a fresh one from his carton, even as his teammate Caboose was busy trying to stack his poker chips into neat little piles, all color-coordinated. Tucking the cancer stick between his teeth, he patted the front of his armor, searching for a lighter, when Simmons leaned over and knocked back one of his robotic fingers, revealing under the tip a small lighter, which he ignited.

A tiny flame hung between the two of them for a moment as the rolled tobacco product dangled from Wash's open mouth. Simmons only smiled.

"Handy," remarked Wash, none-the-less making use of Simmons 2.0 and his unorthodox enhancements to light his cigarette, pulling in a deep breath before exhaling slowly, savoring the sensation. "Ooh yeah, that's the good stuff."

Puffing mightily on his enormous cigar, Sarge made a great show of studying his cards, keeping up one hand to prevent the dirty Blues from sneaking a peek over his shoulder. Or worse, letting Grif see. Simmons or Donut either. Much as he liked his subordinates (well, didn't dislike them... too much) he had an image to maintain.

Across the table, Wash hadn't even bothered to check his cards since his initial look.

"Whatcha think, Doc?" asked Donut.

"I'm a doctor, not a gambler," replied their mutual medic.

Wash considered his options then ultimately slid a few chips to the center of the table. A raise, but not much of one. Sarge matched it, smiling smugly as best he could with a cigar dangling from between his teeth.

The next card was flipped onto the table. Another queen, smiling up at the team beatifically.

"Double goddamnit," muttered Grif, now seriously regretting his decision to fold. "I knew I shouldn't have pulled out so early!"

"Bow-chicka-bow-wow!"

Grumbling mightily, Grif chugged the remainder of his beer in one long gulp, then tossed the empty can to his heavy teammate. Lopez caught it easily and without hesitation crushed the aluminum container against his forehead, compressing it down until it was as flat as a coin. He then added it to the pile of others he'd already been working on that night. In the morning the Reds would use them for target practice.

"Hehehe, well looks like ol' Fate's smilin' on Sarge now..." said the gruff leader of Red Team, as he used his free hand to scoop up his modest earnings and pushes them over towards the middle of the table. ALL of them.

"Sarge are you nuts?"

"Shuddup Grif," he spat. "Ah am on tha verge of a glorious victory here, and ah ain't gonna have it spoiled. So, whatcha say, Wash? Ya got what it takes to throw down with tha big dawgs?" he asked, shaking his arrogantly cards at the former mercenary, still careful to keep their contents hidden the whole while.

Idly Simmons double-checked the cards. Queen, Jack, Ten, Six, Four. An unlikely combination, but if Sarge had been going for a royal flush, he'd trump just about anything that Wash had. Surely the former Freelancer realized that as well, which is why he was hesitating...

"You're bluffing, old man," replied Wash, a smirk on his lips as he read the older man's stance.

"Bluffin'? Son the word ain't in mah dictionary! You think ah'm bluffin' call it!"

The words had scarcely left his mouth before a pair of poker chips descended into the middle of the table, adding to the pile. Tension filled the air, now was the moment of truth. Do or die time. Simultaneously, both men reached down, picked up their cards, and tossed them forward to land face up.

Sarge had a king, it was true, but no ace to complete his royal flush. Instead a lonesome two was hiding beside his first card, as if ashamed to be seen.

But Wash... had the final two queens.

"SONOVA-!"

The staff's words were cut off by a cacophony of yells of disgust and whoops of joy as the two teams descended en masses on their leaders, offering consolation and congratulations where appropriate.

"Man you always know just when to go for the kill!" said Tucker, still amazed by how well Wash was doing. Every single time they had a poker night with the Reds he always managed to trump just about everyone.

Sweeping the chips aside, Wash stood and made his way over to Sarge, who was quickly abandoned by his disgusted subordinates, and looking like someone killed his dog.

"Relax, old man, I'll buy you a beer," said Wash as he clapped the visibly distraught Sarge on his shoulder, steering him towards the cooler that had been set up for the night. The Freelancer Project kept them regularly supplied for their training exercises, including, thanks to some bribery/manipulation on Grif's part, a steady influx of alcohol and cigarettes for those who wanted them.

Two cold beers later, Sarge's dour grimace was replaced by a weak smile. Grif had meanwhile smoothly reclaimed his seat and picked up the scattered cards, while Simmons proceeded to collect all the chips.

"Ya'll're alright, David," he said as he clapped Wash on the shoulder back companionably. "Ya know that offer to join Red Team is still open, technicallae gray ain't..."

"Can't, sorry Sarge. But you know someone's gotta keep those two in line," he said, tilting his head over his shoulder and glancing conspiratorially at his teammates. Sarge nodded, well accustomed to the fact that leadership in one of the two teams in Valhalla was like trying to herd sheep, without benefit of explosives.

Simmons glanced up at the medic leaning against the wall, who was cleaning his glasses with a cloth.

"Doc, you want in on this?"

"I'd really rather not," replied the purple-clad medic, taking a moment to adjust his glasses. "It seems wrong to gamble and..."

"Right, whose in?" Grif intervened, smoothly ignoring the rest of Doc's rant as he shuffled the cards expertly in his hands. Sarge and Wash quickly reclaimed their seats, fresh drinks at hand as the chips were neatly divided up amongst all the players. None of them were playing for real money, after all. Too much temptation. Lopez and Doc continued to sit out on the sidelines, but this time a seat was drawn up for Donut to join in the fun.

"Okay, who cuts?" asked Grif as he set down the shuffled deck.

A surge of energy filled the air, and the inhalation of someone taking a breath.

Wash cut him off, however, with the precision of a lethal strike. "Tucker, it wasn't funny the first time, and it isn't getting any funnier! Now put that damn sword away before you put someone's eye out!"

Still clutching the alien weapon, Tucker sheepishly lowered it and decided against his customary joke of offering to 'cut the deck'. Some still weren't very comfortable with him bringing it to the table but technically it wasn't ammo, so it was allowed by their flimsy rules. Plus, it was difficult to get him to let go of the damn thing. For any reason. Wash was convinced he slept with it under his pillow. The cards were dealt out. Six, seven, nine in the middle, and two hidden for everybody.

"You're an idiot," muttered Grif as he turned up the edges of his cards to check their contents, keeping them flat against the table.

"Yeah well I screwed your sister!" replied Tucker in retaliation.

Lopez chimed in with a sarcastic, "**Qual es non**?"

"What?"

"What?"

"**Que?**"

"Will you pipe down!" interrupted Sarge, feeling a headache coming on. "Its high time we kicked this game into overdrive! And I got just the hand to do it with," he declared, holding up his two new cards.

"I also have a good hand!" said Caboose, causing everyone to glance over at him, idly wondering if he was telling the truth or not. "See? I keep it here, on the end of my wrist," he demonstrated, holding up his hand and flexing his fingers to show everyone. His cards were face down in front of him.

Wisely not pursuing the topic of conversation, every anted up and it was down to Wash to make the next move. He called, as did Grif. Tucker tossed down a six, a meager little ante that seemed mostly for show. Everyone else added in to that,

"I'll see your six," replied Sarge, tossing down the chips appropriate for such. "And I'll raise you... Grif!"

"Grif?"

"Me?"

"You," stated Sarge in his non-nonsense tones. "You win this hand you can take Grif as a hostage for a week. Have him do chores around the blue base or something."

His orange-armored subordinate managed a weak protest. "I'm not sure if I approve of..."

"Quiet Grif. Ah'm on ah hot streak here, don't mess it up for mae."

"Fine, whatever," muttered Grif.

"What if one of us wins?" asked Simmons.

Sarge considered that. "Grif's your personal subordinate for that week then."

"He's already..."

"On with the game!"

Caboose pushed his pile of chips forward into the main gathering, "Very well, if you are wagering Grif, then I will wager... myself. Also for a week. To help around the base."

Simmons and Grif glanced at one another, grimacing at the idea of Caboose as their captive... or anywhere within five hundred yards of their base during normal operations. Sarge, however, smirked, and leaned back in his seat, nodding. "Agreed."

His two flabbergasted underlings turned to him, as did Donut, but Sarge quickly went on to clarify "We could use some live target practice this week."

"Excellent idea sir."

Everyone chipped in appropriately, and Grif dealt the next card, a jack, as well as two replacements for Caboose and one for Donut. To a one, every soldier stayed in. It fell to Grif to choose the next ante, but after a long moment of consideration, he simply called. It was his way. He was as lazy about winning the poker games as he was at his duties. And to say Grif was a little lax when it came to his duties was to say that Tex as just a little bit of a badass on the battlefield. Massive understatement of the year.

"I see your nothing," said Tucker, and tossed in a ten chip.

"Call... and raise," said Sarge, putting down two of them, doubling Tucker's initial bet.

Tucker cursed, even as Caboose tossed in his own chips, handing them out as if they were candy. "Damnit that's not fair!"

"Suck it blue!" retorted Simmons, quickly backing-up his CO with his own chips. Donut did likewise.

"I'm out!" spat Tucker angrily, throwing down his cards (a three and a seven) and then downing his beer in one go.

Wash ultimately folded as well, tossing down his meager eight and nine. The latter of which had him a pair, but he hadn't lived as long as he had by being reckless. He pushed as his meager winnings and puffed on his cigarette, leaning back to watch the drama unfold.

"Hey Sarge sir? Maybe you should consider folding too. I mean, if you win, we get to keep Grif... and nobody wants that."

Sarge scoffed at that. "No way! Only a coward considers retreatin' in the face of the enemy!"

"Oh well, your funeral," muttered Donut.

"Already had one... it sucked. Didn't even get a lousy twenty-one gun salute."

The final round had come, a measly two. Everyone stared down their opponents, poker faces firmly set as they called and anted, setting up bets designed to strike at their weak points, to cause doubt and confusion, and receive the maximum reward for the least effort. It was again down to do or die time, and whatever attributes were attributes to the teams of Valhalla, Red or Blue, a strong sense of caution was definitely not amongst them. Everyone went all in on the final round, pushing forward brightly colored poker chips to the center of the table where they formed the pile that only one could claim through victory. Cards were then flipped, hands presented.

Caboose held a king and for some inexplicable reason a joker.

Simmons had a worthless king and a pair of sevens.

Donut had a ten and an four, not quite a royal flush.

Sarge had a four and a jack, making him a pair of them.

"Haha! Gotcha this time!" the staff sergeant shouted in triumph, reaching over the table to scoop up his earnings. Wash slapped a hand down to stop him, then indicated one player who hadn't yet unveiled his hand. Grif. The orange soldier shrugged and tossed down his hand, and everyone gasped in astonishment. Two aces! He'd had them the entire time and he hadn't said a thing, or even made a move.

Tucker blinked in confusion as the ramifications caught up with him. "So you just succeeded in winning... yourself."

"Worst prize ever," retorted Grif.

"Well you also won Caboose," added Wash with a playful smirk.

Grif considered that for a moment, then realized it was too much work. "... keep him, I don't need that idiot cramping my style."

"What style?"

Doc suddenly raised up his can (he'd been sipping at non-alcohol beer the whole night) and proposed a toast, "... to our great friendship!"

Both sides looked at one another, and simultaneously, and near-silently, vetoed the idea.

"**Para en caducar**?" suggested Lopez instead.

Simmons blinked at him. "Lopez! Have some manners, there's a time and place for such things. I got a better one, to overcoming adversity!" he said, raising his beer.

"To the ladies!" added Tucker with a knowing grin, drink already up in the air.

"To the glorious Red team!" shouted Sarge, beer upraised higher than anyones. Simmons quickly chimed in the same, and Grif dourly raised his own drink.

"To Church!" Caboose suddenly said, startling everyone, and reminding them that their little party wasn't wholly complete.

They were missing some people.

Picking up on his cue, Wash raised his glass. "To the fallen," he stated solemnly, unaware that Lopez had tried the very same not three minutes earlier. Everyone agreed that was the best toast, and promptly raised their cans, drank, and remembered. All those who'd be taken from them. Church, Tex, Flowers, Sheila, Andy, Sister (_maybe_), Junior... they hadn't all been good friends, but they'd been comrades. Everyone emptied their drinks in silent salute to their fallen family. To the soldiers who wouldn't be coming to Valhalla.

At least, not this one.

Sensing the game was over, the old Blue Team finished their drinks and gathered up their helmets and weapons at the door, saying their farewells to one another.

"It was very nice to see you all again to play games where we do not shoot at one another," said Caboose as he tried to fit on his helmet... backwards. Tucker rescued him and obligingly turned it around the proper way, then knocked it down onto the thicker man's head with a hard knock.

"We'll see you next month!" yelled Donut as he waved farewell from the doorway. "Remember it'll be your turn to bring the chips!"

"Yeah!" shouted Sarge. "Prepare for defeat, blue scum! Sooner or later I'm going to break this damn lucky streak of yours!" he shouted indignantly. It was mostly for show. Sarge was always the first to welcome them to their monthly game. Truth was, for all his gruffness and dead-set hatred of "the Blues," he considered them friends.

Both individually and as a team, or pair of teams, they had all faced and seen incredible things. Aliens, time travel, dead friends resurrected, old foes grand schemes, the machination of scientists and criminals and monsters. Life, death, love, war, even a male pregnancy.

In a world that seemed decidedly mad, the two teams had carved for themselves a small niche of normalcy with their monthly card games.

"Let's raise the stakes next time," said Wash as he slipped on his helmet and activated his visor.

It was a long walk home, but he wasn't in any real hurry.

* * *

**Author's Notes:  
**Halo Hold'em is played just like Texas Hold'em, but given it's also the name of a Freelancer, plus it's the future, I wanted to change it to ensure a minimum of confusion. I hope Lopez' Spanish is accurate, but if its not, then I cite the rule of Red vs Blue... that nobody can understand him or cares to anyway.


End file.
